King of the Universe
by Cheeky Slytherin Lass
Summary: Fifteen Kingsley-centric AUs.
1. What Happens In Vegas (mafia au)

_Creativity Challenge: KingsleyLucius, Mafia!au_

_Word Count:_ 1360

* * *

This isn't the first time Kingsley has ever been in an interrogation room, but it is the first time he's been the one interrogated. A man who identifies himself as Percival Graves circles him, dark brows raising.

"Whatever happened to you, Shacklebolt?" he asks. "Scotland Yard says you used to be a damn fine detective."

Kingsley knows this game. A little flattery can make the foolish talk so easily, but Kingsley isn't a fool. He keeps his lips pressed together in silence and his hands folded neatly in front of him.

"You're one of them now," Graves says.

"One of whom?" Kingsley asks.

"You know what I'm talking about."

Kingsley laughs. They think they know everything about the Malfoy family, but no one dares to say it aloud. No one would ever say outright that they suspect Lucius Malfoy of being the head of a Mafia crime family.

"What are you doing in Vegas, anyway?" Graves presses, pulling a cigarette from his pocket and tucking it between his lips. "Want a smoke? Nah, you're a clean-cut kind of guy, aren't you?"

Kingsley focuses on the first question as the detective lights up. "The Malfoys wanted to see a show," he says. "Mrs. Malfoy is quite fond of Celine Dion."

"Long way from England, isn't it?"

Kingsley sighs heavily, shaking his head. "Mr. Malfoy is head of one of the most prominent shipping companies in all of Europe. I think he's earned a nice holiday, don't you?"

Before Graves can answer, the door opens and a man walks in. The newcomer whispers something in Graves' ear. Judging by the sudden irritation on the detective's face, Kingsley can guess what's happened.

"We are terribly sorry about this," Graves says stiffly, though he doesn't look sorry at all.

The newcomer smiles. "Hey, accidents happen. How do you think the kids got here? You're free to go, Mr. Shacklebolt."

Lucius is waiting for him outside. The two walk in silence to the awaiting car. It's only once they're inside, hidden behind the tinted windows that Kingsley speaks. "I'm guessing you found someone to take a little money," he notes.

Lucius shrugs, breaking out a bottle of champagne. "Greed makes the world go round," he says. "And this whole fucking city is a hotbed for it. Besides, it isn't like they could have actually held you on anything."

Kingsley rolls his eyes. The evidence had been circumstancia at best, but it didn't matter. Kingsley knows Americans have a reputation for ignoring the facts if it makes law enforcement look good.

"I was beginning to wonder if it was some sort of test," Kingsely admits as he accepts a flute of bubbly champagne. "Thought maybe you wanted to find out if I'm loyal to you."

Lucius doesn't answer straight away. He presses a button, creating a barrier between them and the driver. Satisfied that they are alone at last, he moves in, resting a hand on Kingsley's thigh. "I already know you're loyal," he murmurs before kissing Kingsley.

…

Kingsley doesn't like Las Vegas much. It's great for nightlife, but terrible for covering up a crime. Still, if Lucius says it has to be done, it has to be done.

Kingsley doesn't ask questions. He just drags the corpse out into the desert and buries it beneath the sand. He doesn't need to know who it is; knowing Lucius, it's someone from the Weasley family or a client who screwed them over.

All that matters is that Kingsley does his job. When a kingpin like Lucius Malfoy gives an order, there's no way around it.

…

Kinglsey accompanies Lucius and Narcissa on their night out on the city. Vegas really is something else entirely; Kingsley can't think of a place in England that compares to it. There are bright lights everywhere and so much noise that it's almost overwhelming. Movie posters and advertisements for upcoming shows are at every corner.

Throughout all the madness, Lucius Malfoy is calm and collected. He holds himself with a sort of elegance that few men can manage, and he does it so naturally.

His arm wraps around Narcissa's shoulders, and Kingsely tries his best to swallow down the sudden wave of jealousy that sours his stomach. Lucius isn't actually _his. _He is just a mob boss, and Kingsley is his bodyguard. What happens between them behind closed doors doesn't mean anything.

At least he tries to tell himself as much, but he knows the truth. Narcissa Malfoy, as lovely as she is, is just an illusion. She comes from another crime family, and their union was inevitable, just like her sister's marriage into the Lestrange family. It's all about strategy and power, another act of greed.

All Kingsley can do is accept it.

…

"If I didn't know any better," Lucius says as he sits at his desk in the hotel suite, counting his money, "I would say you aren't enjoying your holiday."

Kingsley shrugs. "It's been fun enough," he says.

"Fun enough," Lucius echoes with a smirk. "I'm sorry, but you know it's strictly business."

"I know."

The Weasley family has been extending its reach across the pond. The Malfoys are too proud to let that go unchecked. Kingsley doesn't know what the endgame is, but he imagines it won't be pretty. Lives of crime so rarely end well. The best anyone can hope for is to go down in a blaze of glory.

Lucius sets the stack of bills aside and climbs to his feet, closing the distance between them in a quick stride of his long legs. "Don't worry," he says, blond brows raising as he caresses Kingsley's cheek. "I don't believe in all work, no play. Narcissa is at the spa. What she doesn't know won't hurt her."

And Kingsley melts.

…

Their time in Vegas is drawing to an end. Soon they will be home again, back in the hustle and bustle of London. For now, though, they have one last night. Narcissa stays at the hotel, claiming a headache.

Lucius sits at the table, and Kingsley stands to the side. This isn't a date; it's simply business, as he's reminded when Pete "the Worm" Pettigrew, a lackey for the Riddle family sits down across from Lucius. Kingsley remains vigilant. He trusts the little rat about as far as he can throw him.

"The Weasleys?" Lucius asks.

The Worm smirks. "My boss'll make 'em go _pop_," he says, making a gesture to mime an explosion. "Know what I'm sayin'? Already took care of one half of the twins. Won't be hard to make the rest disappear."

"That's what I like to hear. They've stuck their noses into our business a few too many times," Lucius notes, signaling for a refill of his wine. "I need them to disappear for good, but I can't have anything leading back to me."

"For the right price, we'll be nice and discreet."

Lucius laughs. "Everything has a price, doesn't it?" But he doesn't hesitate to reach in his bag and pull out a stack of bills.

The moment it exchanges hands, the restaurant is overrun. Kingsley pulls out his badge and gun, pointing it at Lucius. "Lucius Malfoy," he says, "you're under arrest." He glances up at Percival Graves and nods. "I'll let you take it from here."

…

"Bravo," Lucius says, peering up at Kingsley from the table. "You are quite an actor. I hope you get an award for your performance."

Kingsley keeps his lips pressed together, leaning against the wall of the interrogation room. Even if he worked the case for years, this isn't his place. Let the Americans have it. At least it means less paperwork when he finally gets home.

"You had me fooled. You know, I thought you loved me."

Kingsley swallows. That's the probably. Those emotions weren't fake. He meant every bit of it, even though he knew it put the entire operation in jeopardy to fall in love.

"Have a good day, Mr. Malfoy," Kingsley says before turning on his heel and walking toward the door.

"Sure you don't wanna sit in?" Graves asks.

Kingsley shakes his head. "He's all yours."


	2. For the Both of Us (western au)

_KingsleyRosmerta, western!au_

_Word Count: 1102_

* * *

"Kingsley," Rosmerta says, her voice barely above a whisper when the young outlaw sits down at the bar of the saloon.

Kingsley just nods, lips quirking into a hint of a crooked grin. He adjusts his hat so that it falls a little lower on his face, hiding his features in shadow. As far as anyone else in this bar is concerned, he's dead. God knows every man in this saloon tried their best to see to it that he was.

Rosmerta's face balances. She doesn't dwell on Kingsley for too long. With a quick, "Upstairs. You know the place." under her breath, she resumes her work, focusing on a drunk patron slurring a dueling challenge to a man accused of cheating at the poker table.

Kingsley doesn't wait. Taking advantage of the dim lighting that keeps him covered in shadow, he makes his way upstairs. He's walked these stairs many times, though never for the reasons most men do. He takes no interest in the pretty girls with the rouge-painted cheeks and cherry red lips who call out to him. His eyes remain fixed upon the room at the end of the hall. Rosmerta's room, and the closest thing to a home he had for the longest time after heading out west to this godforsaken dusty town.

He doesn't have to wait long. Rosmerta appears shortly after he takes a seat on the familiar bed. "What the hell are you doing here?" she demands. "You're supposed to be dead!"

Kingsley chuckles. "I hope you mean you thought I was dead," he says. "_Supposed to be _sounds a little harsh, don't you think?"

There's a pause. With a laugh, Rosmerta rushes forward, throwing her arms around him, capturing him in a warm hug. She rests her head against his chest. "I was afraid I would never see you again."

Kingsley takes a deep breath. If he's honest, he had felt the same. That mob ran him out of town, lead by the very man he opposed, Sheriff Rookwood. The crooked sheriff had put a bullet in his chest and left him to bleed out.

But now he's back, and he knows what he has to do. It isn't revenge. Kingsley has never been that type of man. No, he's motivated by something much more noble than that. This town is under the watchful eye of a corrupt sheriff. Kingsley won't be the last person driven from town and shot in cold blood. At least he won't be unless he does something.

"Why are you here?" Rosmerta asks, as though she can read his mind and knows he's up to something.

Kingsley pulls her close, kissing her gently. "I have to put an end to this."

…

Kingsley keeps his face obscured as he sits at the poker table. As expected, Sheriff Rookwood finds a chair. He could never resist the chance to take money from the town residents.

"We don't get many strangers in these parts," Rookwood says, taking a card from the deck. "I raise."

"I fold," someone else says.

"Fold."

"All in," Kingsley says.

It's only when Kingsley speaks that realization seems to dawn on 's deep, velvet voice is so distinct that it's easy to recognize it, even after months have passed.

"You," Rookwood says. "You're a dead man."

Kingsley laughs and sets his cards down. "I would be if you were not such a piss-poor shot," he replies simply. "But I'm giving you a second chance. Sundown. You and me, Rookwood. Unless you're too much of a coward to face me without your posse."

Rookwood doesn't look too thrilled by the challenge. All eyes are on him, though, and Kinglsey has a feeling his pride is stronger than his fear. After several moments, he nods and tosses his cards on the table. "We duel at sundown then," he says before standing. "Let's go, boys."

The other two at the table also rise. Kingsley takes a sip of his drink, watching as they go.

…

"Not gonna come and watch?" Kingsley asks.

Rosmerta shakes her head. "Someone has to tend to the saloon."

But he knows that isn't the reason. Aberforth is perfectly capable of doing it. She just doesn't want to see him die or become a killer. Maybe he doesn't blame her.

"I'm coming back," he says, taking her hand gently in his own. "I promise."

She huffs, brown eyes glistening with tears she refuses to shed. "You can't promise me that."

Kingsley just grins. "Well, I did."

…

He isn't afraid when he reaches the center of the town. Fear has long since left his mind; it cannot touch him.

Townspeople have come out. Familiar faces, young and old, line the street. Kingsley wonders what they're hoping for. The scar left behind on his body tells him that he knows _exactly _what they want.

Rookwood appears just before the sun begins to dip over the horizon. They don't bother with niceties, and Kingsley is glad. Rookwood doesn't deserve even false respect from him. The challenge is issued, and both men take their positions.

It's him or Rookwood. Only one man can walk away from this, and Kingsley intends to be the victor.

Rookwood is fast, but Kingsley is faster. His pistol is in his hand, sure and true and steady after so much time practicing on old whiskey bottles.

The impact doesn't sound like shattering glass. A bullet entering a body is completely different. Glass doesn't bleed, but Rookwood does as he falls to the ground, a cloud of dust rising with the impact.

Kingsley doesn't holster his weapon. Rookwood has too many allies, and he knows this might end in a shootout of vengeance. He may not live through it, but he will take as many of the bastards down as he can.

Someone steps forward and kneels beside the fallen sheriff. No one else moves. Kingsley takes a deep breath as the newcomer rises again and steps closer, holding out the sheriff badge. "Looks like there's a new sheriff in town," he says before pinning the star to Kingsley's vest.

…

As he sits in the saloon, declining offer after offer to buy him a drink, Kingsley puts the pieces together. From what he can tell, no one actually liked Rookwood, but they were all too afraid to challenge him. Fear would have held them prisoner if not for Kingsley.

Rosmerta leans against the bar, grinning. "And what can I get for you, Sheriff Shacklebolt?"

"Your hand in marriage, if you'll give it to me, Rosmerta."

She blushes but nods. "It is yours."


	3. Sleeping Pills (film noir au)

_Kingsley&Blaise, film noir!au_

_Word Count: 1256_

* * *

Kingsley is used to strange visitors in his office, but not like this. The boy is young; if he's any older than twenty, he doesn't look it. He's dressed in a fine Italian suit with a fedora to match, much too expensive for someone his age. Kingsley props his feet on his desk, studying the kid curiously.

"They say you're the best," the kid says.

Kingsley grins. "I don't like to brag, but…" He shrugs. "They're right."

"My name is Blaise Zabini."

Kingsley is about to tell him that he doesn't need a name, when the surname clicks in his head. "Zabini?"

"Yes. _That _Zabini."

"And what can I do for you, Mr. Zabini?"

Blaise takes his hat off, gripping it tightly by the brim. "Cause of death for my father was an overdose, but I knew him. He didn't mess with that stuff."

Kingsley frowns. He vaguely remembers the Zabini death six years back. From his understanding, it had been a fairly simple open and close case. Giovanni Zabini took a few too many sleeping pills. End of story.

So why does his son seem to think there's more to it?

"What happened to your father was a tragic accident, but I'm not sure what I can do."

"It wasn't an accident. My last three stepfathers met similar fates. One, snake venom without any puncture wounds. Another was half-blind and just happened to mix drain cleaner into his coffee. And another overdose. That's four men, all poisoned." He folds his arms over his chest. "Two things in common. They were all very wealthy, and they left that wealth to their wife, my mother."

Kingsley shakes his head. Isadora Zabini is a legend in her own right. She hasn't acted in a film since her twenties, but she was covered by every film company. "Are you implying that your mother is responsible?"

"Yes. My father had no vices. He never even hit the bottle, Mr. Shacklebolt. My mother murdered him, and I want to see her taken care of before the next poor bastard walks into her life."

"I'll see what I can do."

…

Isadora Zabini is just as beautiful as she had been when Kingsley first saw her onscreen. There are hints of laugh lines around her chocolate-brown eyes, but that's the only sign the age has caught up to her. She smiles when Kingsley offers to buy her a drink.

"Such a charming gentleman," she says. "I would love a refill."

Kingsley signals for the bartender.

"And what exactly is it that you do?" Isadora asks, dark brows raising curiously.

He tells her a lie he's told a thousand times before. All she needs to know is that he's rich enough to satisfy her. Years of experience have taught him to execute the lie with unwavering confidence. She eats it right up, and he knows that she is in his web.

All he needs to do now is get close enough.

…

The Zabini home is lovely. It takes Kingsley nearly month of showing off and impressing Isadora before he is finally rewarded. Isadora greets him in an emerald green dress that hugs her curves and has a slit up the thigh. Kingsley can't help but stare.

It takes several moments to remember why he's here. As much as he would love to enjoy Isadora's company more intimately, he has a job to do.

"Is something wrong, my darling?" She descends the staircase and meets him, pressing her slender body to his. "You look awfully tense."

"Nothing that your company cannot fix, my sweet," he assures her, kissing her. "If you'll excuse me, I need the bathroom."

She gives him directions before telling him she would be waiting for him in the parlor. Kingsley knows he has to act quickly. There isn't much time to investigate without raising suspicion. He hurries up the stairs, searching each room until he comes across what must be Isadora's.

Kingsley checks his watch, swearing softly under his breath. It took so much time to find the bedroom that he doesn't have enough left to search thoroughly. Deciding his cover is as good as blown, he shrugs. Let her find out he's been deceiving her; at least he has a chance to uncover the truth.

…

Kingsley is surprised to find her still waiting for him. He assumed she might have grown suspicious, but she sits in the parlor, posture painfully straight and rigid. Her dark eyes narrow when she sees what he's holding.

"Most people are smart enough to dispose of the evidence," he says. "Then again, why bother when no one suspects a thing?"

Isadora studies the contents curiously. "And what is this meant to be?"

Kingsley taps the pill bottle. "The same sleeping pills two of your husbands overdosed on." He pulls out the vial liquid. "Viper venom, which your second husband succumbed to. I suppose it would be imprudent to just keep drain cleaner lying around."

She presses a hand to her perfectly painted lips, a soft gasp escaping. "Are you really accusing me of murder, Mr. Shacklebolt?" she asks.

She's an actress by trade, and Kingsley doesn't buy her innocent act for a single second. "I am. The evidence is right in front of you. How dare you try to deny it?"

All the warmth fades from her eyes at that point. Kingsley thinks that maybe she's about to confess, but that hope shatters when she pushes the bag toward him once more. "It might be worth noting," she says coolly, "that those pills are my son's. Now, get the hell out."

…

_That dirty liar, _Kingsley thinks as he makes his way back to his office.

But it doesn't make any sense. Why would Blaise Zabini send him on a wild goose chase if he was the culprit the whole time? He had to know Kingsley would have figured it out; Blaise had sought him out _because _he's the best in the business.

When Kingsley opens the door to his office, he's greeted by the soft click of a gun being cocked. Blaise sits in Kingsley's chair, full lips twitching into a smirk. "Have fun?" he asks.

"What the hell are you playing at?" Kingsley demands.

Blaise only laughs. "You will give me protection. You're the best, and you've proven that well enough today."

"And why would I help you?"

Blaise extends his hand, offering Kingsley the telephone receiver. Curious but cautious, Kingsley presses it to his ear.

"Save me," he hears Isadora say.

"I… I can't. I'm sorry," a second voice Kingsley doesn't recognize answers.

"What is this?" Kingsleys asks, dropping the receiver.

Blaise lowers his pistol. "My insurance. Tomorrow morning, my mother's body will turn up. Whether or not your DNA is all over her depends on how you proceed," he says. "Should you reject my offer, my mother's cook and gardener will put you at the scene and claim the two of you had a nasty row. If you're smart, her death will be a terrible accident. She is ever so clumsy. It will be easy enough to believe."

Kingsley sucks in a deep breath. This isn't how his life is meant to be.

"You will be paid handsomely, of course. Though, I suppose avoiding life in prison should be its own reward. Do we gave a deal?"

Kingsley hates himself as the words leave his lips. "Deal."

He never thought he'd be the kind to end up corrupted, but if that's the price for freedom… so be it.


	4. The Last Lullaby (WWII au)

_For Bex_

_KingsleyHarry, WWII!au_

_Word Count: 1075_

* * *

The crying wakes him. It's thundering, and they're sleeping in mud and being pelted by relentless rain, but he still hears the crying. Careful as he can be, Kingsley rolls onto his stomach and crawls along his row of sleeping soldiers, searching for the source of the noise. It doesn't take long. Potter is a good soldier, but Kingsley has noticed him breaking down. Fighting the Nazi bastards is a lot to take in sometimes, especially to a new recruit.

Kingsley knows he should tell Potter to get some sleep, that he's as good as dead if he's dead on his feet. Instead, he nudges him. "Nightmares?"

Potter shakes his head, sniffling. "I'm scared." Lightning illuminates the sky, and Kingsley can see the way his pale cheeks flush pink with embarrassment.

"I used to be scared of bad weather too, Potter."

"Call me Harry. Please. And it isn't the weather."

Kingsley's brows raise. "Then what is it?"

"This." He gestures vaguely. "I never wanted to be a soldier. I was just following in my dad's footsteps. I thought I was fit for it, but I'm not."

Kingsley takes a deep breath. He can vaguely remember the feeling. He had joined the military willingly; unlike Potter, his family tried to talk him out of it. There had been fear in those early days, but Kingsley quickly realized he was a natural. He wonders if Harry will ever have the same epiphany. From what Kingsley has seen while leading his men, Harry was born to lead, and there is so much potential for him.

He doesn't say any of this. If anyone found out he was paying special attention to a soldier…

Kingsley tries to tell himself it's his job, but he knows there's more to it. The glances he steals are not motivated by his position. They are purely selfish, and they could cause him to lose everything.

He tugs at the bronze button on his uniform, searching for the right words to say. Finally, he sighs. "You'll be fine, Harry," he says, and it feels strange to refer to him in such a casual way. "Get some sleep."

Instead of crawling back to his spot, Kingsley stays there. Harry seems to appreciate the comfort, and Kingsely just likes the closeness.

…

There is noise and chaos as he and his men move through the trees. They've been found out. Kingsley is tempted to tell them to fall back, but they are too scattered to do any good.

He gives the command to proceed as planned to those who are near enough to hear him over the blaze of gunfire. This is the part he hates most. He can see the way this is going to play out. Kingsley has lead his men straight into a massacre. There will be so much blood on his hands.

They were just following his orders, and he was following someone else's direction. A small smile quirks his lips. That's all war is, isn't it? Just a bunch of men risking their lives to play follow the leader?

Harry is close to him. It's more distracting than Kingsley would like to admit, but that's the least of his troubles. All around him, his men are dropping like flies all around him. There are explosions, and the earth erupts as landmines are triggered.

"Fall back!" Kingsley screams, though he doubts anyone can hear him at all. "Fall back!" Fall–"

His words are cut off as something tears into his stomach. Kingsley freezes, looking down. His jaw drops as he watches his uniform turn crimson with blood.

A bullet, he realizes. He's been shot. A laugh escapes his lips. He's done this for a long time, and he's never been shot before.

"First time for everything," he muses before falling. The world grows black.

…

When he opens his eyes, the first thing he notices is the pain. His stomach seems to be on fire. The memory only floods his brain when he tries to sit up and immediately falls back down. The sounds of war still sound in the distance, but Harry seems to have found them a safe place to hide.

"Blood loss."

Kingsley looks up to see Harry sitting beside him. The younger man is shirtless. Kingsley can only assume his missing uniform is the only thing that's prevented Kingsley from bleeding out.

"I can't stop the bleeding," Harry whispers. "I'm so sorry."

Kingsley closes his eyes, groaning as he shifts to find a comfortable position. Apparently having a bullet in his gut means he can never get comfortable again. Maybe that shouldn't bother him; after all, he doubts he has long left.

"'That it will never come again is what makes life so sweet.'," he muses.

Harry's dark brows raise. "I'm sorry?"

"Emily Dickinson." His mother always loved the poet. Kingsley never cared much for her, but he recalls the quote now. "She often wrote about death."

"Sounds cheerful, but you aren't dying."

Kingsley laughs, and it hurts. "You already said you can't stop the bleeding. Unless you're a wizard with some magical potions, I don't see how you can honestly believe that."

"Because I don't want you to die."

There's something in his tone that catches Kingsley off guard. Those are not the words of a man addressing his commanding officer. There's an emotion in his voice, a longing that is all too familiar to Kingsley.

Sometimes, when Kingsley would steal glances, he would find Harry looking at him too. At the time, he had dismissed it as little more than a coincidence. Now he isn't so sure.

He opens his mouth, but he can't bring himself to say it. Even as his body is growing weaker, he is still too afraid to open up. He takes as deep a breath as his failing body will allow before looking Harry in the eye. Emerald green. How beautiful.

"I fancied you," Kingsley admits.

"Does it have to be past tense?"

Kingsley shakes his head. "Right now. I fancy you. Present tense."

Harry laughs, but it sounds more like a sob. "Present tense," he agrees before leaning down and kissing Kingsley gently.

"I'm so cold," Kingsley whispers.

"What can I do to help?"

"Just stay with me."

And he does. Even as the world grows darker and Kingsley's breathing becomes more shallow, Harry is by his side, humming a soft lullaby. All in all, maybe dying isn't so bad.


	5. Like a Father (pirate au)

_Kingsley&Alastor, pirate!au_

_Word Count: 1636_

* * *

i.

Kingsley Shacklebolt is eleven years old the day his life changes. His family is heading to London with the promise of a better life, and he knows he will find adventure beyond his wildest dreams there.

"I'm gonna be an explorer," he tells his mother proudly before jumping onto the railing of the ship and watching the waves lap against the hull. "Just wait! I'm gonna see the world!"

She just smiles and calls for him to get down. Kingsley has to listen because she's his mother, but he knows that one day he won't have to follow orders.

…

It happens so fast. Almost instantly, the beautiful blue sky is cloudy, and thunder claps. Kingsley clings to his mother, and she whispers to him that everything is going to be okay. They're safe.

But he doesn't feel so safe. And as the ocean tosses the ship and lightning strikes a little too close for comfort, he thinks he has good reason not to.

The wave strikes without warning. The tiny ship is no match and is torn apart. By some miracle, his mother manages to keep his hand in hers as they go overboard.

"I've got you," she tells him, and she still sounds so brave even as she's sobbing. "Everything is going to be okay."

But Kingsley as they cling to a stray piece of the hull, Kingsley has a feeling that it isn't okay at all. He wants his father and his bed and a warm meal. Instead, they are stranded and the water is so cold. In the back of his mind, he wonders how long it will take for the hungry sharks to find them.

…

They are both too weak, but his mother lets go first. With tears in her eyes, she croaks out, "I love you." before falling into the water. For a moment, there are bubbles in the darkness as she thrashes feebly, but then it's all over.

Kingsley is alone.

…

He doesn't know how long he drifts before the ship finds him. They send out a smaller boat to pick him up. Strangers are dangerous, but he doesn't protest. At the point, he thinks there's no need for resistance. If they kill him, he will be reunited with his family. Maybe it will be worth it.

But they don't kill him or even try to hurt him. One man mutters little frets and fusses as he drapes a jacket over Kingsley's shivering body.

"Captain Mad-Eye won't believe this," someone murmurs.

"As long as he's been at it? I don't think anything can surprise the old codger."

_Mad-Eye. _Kingsley tries to swallow down his fear. "S-sounds like a pirate," he stammers.

"Aye! Best damn pirate you'll ever meet, lad!"

Strangers are dangerous, but pirate strangers are infinitely worse. Still, it isn't like Kingsley can go anywhere. All he can do is sit tight and hope for the best.

…

Captain Mad-Eye is as terrifying as his name suggests. He's missing an eye and a leg, and Kingsley is more than a little sure that something has bitten off his nose. Fully aware that he still needs to be polite, he drops his gaze before the pirate can catch him staring.

"My men tell me you were found drifting along, boy."

Kingsley nods. "Y-yes," he confirms. "My parents are gone. There was an accident…"

"In death, there are no accidents. Constant vigilance, son! Keeps you safe."

Kingsley wants to tell him that nothing could have kept him safe from that storm, but he keeps quiet. Captain Mad-Eye doesn't seem like the type to tolerate arguing.

"I suppose you're an orphan now."

Kingsley feels tears prick his eyes. _Orphan. _He doesn't know anything about orphans except that they're sent to orphanages and treated horribly. He shudders at the thought.

"Don't cry, boy. How would you like a place on the ship?"

It's wild and impossible, yet the offer is right before him. All he has to do is take it. "I can stay?"

He can be just like the characters in books. The world is his for the taking, and it is full of adventures to be had. Somehow, despite the heaviness in his heart, he smiles.

ii.

"Oh my God." Kingsley struggles for breath, his chest aching where Mad-Eye had kicked him and knocked the wind from his lungs. "That was really violent."

The old pirate captain just laughs, his good eye rolling. "And how long have you been with me?" he asks.

"Twelve years," Kingsley answers before realizing it was a rhetorical question.

Mad-Eye grins and shakes his head. "Twelve years, and you still don't have the heart for bloodshed."

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

Maybe it isn't. At least, he knows it isn't in the normal world. But Kingsley isn't normal anymore; he hasn't been for a very long time. He's a pirate now, and he has seen battle more times than he would like to admit. Still, he hates it. He wishes he could get along without the violence.

"Have you considered doing anything with your life?" Mad-Eye asks.

Kingsley looks up, surprised by the question. Pirates don't have lives outside the ship, not really. They'll reach the shore and have a night or two to themselves, but then it's back to the sea.

"And what shall I do with my life?" Kingsley asks, his tone light and teasing. "Shall I become a poet? Oh! Perhaps I shall learn the finer aspects of healing that don't involve sealing a wound with a heated blade."

He expects the captain to laugh and add his part of the joke. Instead, there's a sadness in his eye that Kingsley doesn't quite understand.

"What did you want to do before you joined my crew?"

Kingsley frowns, trying to remember a life before the ship. He had been so young. He remembers his mother's dark eyes and kind smile, and the way his father often smelled of herbs and earth. He remembers chasing insects and trying to capture them in a jar.

The rest seems to be blank. He forgets who he was all those years ago, and he doesn't like it. Before the frustration can get the best of him, he picks up his cutlass. "Again?"

The captain gets into position, grinning. "Again."

…

It isn't the last of it. Kingsley is swabbing the deck when Mad-Eye finds him. "Don't you want more from life, boy?"

Maybe he does, but Kingsley doesn't know what. A pirate's life is all he knows anymore. "I'm happy with this."

As if to expose him as a liar, the ship rocks, and dirty water slashes, soaking Kingsley's trousers. He swears loudly, kicking the bucket a little too roughly and sending it overboard.

"I _am _happy!"

Mad-Eye snorts and hobbles away.

…

"I'm not going to make your decisions for you," Mad-Eye says as he and Kingsley sit in his quarters, sharing a simple meal of fish and stale bread. "But I want you to be more than this, Kingsley."

"More than what?"

"You know."

Kingsley sighs heavily. Yes, he knows, but he still isn't sure where this sentiment is coming from. He has served by Mad-Eye's side for more than a decade. Over the years, the old man has become like a father to him.

Has he done something wrong? Is Mad-Eye trying to get rid of him? It can't be that. The pirate captain is swift in dealing with his displeasure. The fact that Kingsley is still alive serves as a testament to his good standing with Mad-Eye.

His worry must show because Mad-Eye sets his bread aside and reaches out, patting Kingsley's hand gently. "I want you safe."

"I'm safe with you," Kingsley insists.

"Not for long. I fear a mutiny is brewing."

Kingsley shivers. He has noticed a shift in the crew. They tend to look at him with mistrust in their eyes. Whenever he walks in on them, they always stop talking abruptly and stare at him. Sometimes, Kingsley can hear them whisper when he walks past them.

"Put a stop to it."

Mad-Eye sighs and shakes his head. "I've had my time, son. I dreamt of a pirate's life and the adventures it brought. I never imagined it would be so rewarding. But the sea brought me something more valuable than gold. It brought me a son."

Silence hangs between them. Kingsley nibbles his bread, letting the words sink in.

"I always imagined I would pass the ship to my son," Mad-Eye says. "Watching you grow… I want you to have a better life than I ever could. I want you to be better than me."

"You can come with me."

Mad-Eye smiles sadly before reaching into his pocket and setting a bag down in front of Kingsely. There's a fair bit of gold and a coded scroll inside. Kingsley recognizes the code immediately. It's one he helped to develop.

"That's enough gold to get you settled," Mad-Eye tells him. "The scroll will lead you to where I've left my fortune. You cannot have my ship, but I can give you the world."

"Please… Come with me."

Mad-Eye shakes his head. "I can't."

"You'll die."

"Aye. But that's the thing, isn't it? I wanted a pirate's life, and I accepted that it would mean a pirate's death."

"I'm going to miss you."

Alastor nods. "Go change the world for me."

…

Kinglsey has been rowing for what seems like an eternity. The ship is still visible in the distance, and his heart aches as he moves farther out.

From here, he can hear the shouts and see the spark of gunpowder. Tears fall from his eyes, and he bows his head. "To Mad-Eye," he says, "the best damn pirate the world has ever known."


	6. I Will Follow You (medieval au)

_KingsleyPoppy, medieval!au (Black Death)_

_Word Count: 1033_

* * *

Kingsley makes quick work of it. Herbs burn as he walks the perimeter of his home, ringing his bell with each step and calling upon all the saints he can remember. He is reasonably sure most of the saints are not actually applicable here, but he thinks that they need all the help they can get.

The Black Death is nothing to laugh at or take lightly. They have all heard about what has happened in the larger villages. Illness and death have plagued the streets. Far too many homes have been marked with a red X, announcing to the world that those within are dying or have died of the blasted sickness and inviting others to cleanse them with fire.

He will not let it happen to him or his wife.

He throws more herbs over the embers in the fireplace. Aromatic smoke fills the small cottage as he resumes his trek.

Kingsley doesn't know how many times he's done this already. All he knows is that his legs have begun to ache.

"Kingsley?"

He pauses, turning to the door. His heart races happily in his chest when he sees Poppy standing there. Her face is obscured by a bit of cloth covering her nose and mouth, but her blue-green eyes are visible, and she is as lovely as ever.

"Poppy, my love," he says.

Though he cannot see her expression, he assumes she isn't amused by the bell in his hand. Poppy is a healer by trade. She knows how to save lives in ways that Kingsley could never begin to imagine. But, as she has told him countless times, superstition isn't one of them. Of course, he does not see how it is superstition at all. Still, he lets his wife continue with her line of thought. There is no reason to inform that church that he has married a heretic.

Poppy remains quiet. Kingsley moves closer, but she takes a step back and shakes her head.

"Remove your mask," he instructs, growing uncomfortable.

This isn't like her at all. Normally when she returns from long journeys, she is quick to throw herself into his arms and recount her tales from the neighboring villages. She always has the best stories, and Kingsley needs to hear one now. He needs to know that everything is okay, that everything is normal.

"Poppy," he says, his voice pleading and barely above a whisper. "Poppy, tell me what has happened."

"The Black Death has reached my sister's village," she reports.

His legs threaten to give out. Kingsley presses his hand firmly against the wall to steady himself, taking a deep breath. It does nothing to ease his mind. His thoughts race rapidly, and fear takes hold and grips him without mercy. The terrible illness has spread. It is only a village away.

After several moments of tense silence, he nods and turns, retrieving a bag. "Right. There is still time," he says. "We will take only what we can carry. If we leave now, perhaps we can stay ahead of it."

"Kingsley…"

"We should have listened to Sybill when she said she had a vision," he mutters, filling the bag with clothes. "But you refuse to believe in mysticism. It might have been our downfall, had you not gone to visit your sister."

"_Kingsley!_" Her tone startles him and makes him drop his bag. He has never heard her speak with such authority. "I cannot go."

Dread is heavy in his stomach as he turns around. Poppy removes the cloth from her face, and Kingsley feels his heart shatter.

Horrible bumps have emerged along her throat. When she turns her head just so, he can see another swollen area behind her ear. Kingsley has never seen the Black Death firsthand, but they have all heard stories. Every one of those stories begin with terrible, swollen lumps along the body, and they end the same way as well; they end in death and flame.

Poppy covers her face once again. "I'm sorry, my love," she says. "I am running out of time, but there is still hope for you. You can still fight this."

Kingsley shakes his head. "I am not sure that I want to fight it, Poppy," he says, moving forward again. He doesn't let her move away from him this time. He takes her hand firmly in his. "Remember our vows? Remember I told you that I would follow you until my end?"

"You cannot follow me here" she tells him, and he can see the tears clinging to her lashes. "We must part in this world."

Before she can protest, he pulls away her mask and captures her lips in a kiss. Now, the tears do fall, and he can taste the salt on his tongue as he pulls away.

"You are a fool," she says. "Do you have any idea what you have done?"

"I will not let you go alone."

…

It hurts. Kingsley can feel it in his blood, all the way into the marrow of his bones. He is weak and aching, and his hand shakes so badly as lifts the rag, dipped in red. Poppy is already gone. Her body is still on the bed, undisturbed. Her beautiful eyes are still open, but they are cloudy now, and they can no longer see. Her lips are cracked, and dried blood still clings to her skin. He will never hear her sweet voice again.

That makes all of this less frightening and reassures him that he has done the right thing. If he had left, he would spend a lifetime alone, longing for his beautiful wife. By staying, his days are numbered, but he knows they will be reunited in Paradise.

With that, he brings the rag down once, forming a red slanted line. Another movement brings a second line, marking the door with that dreaded red x.

Despite his reassurances, there is still a part of him that fears death. All it takes is another look at his fallen wife, and he finds his strength.

Closing the door behind him, Kingsley hobbles into his tiny home before collapsing beside the bed. It won't be long now.


	7. Forever In Love (arranged marriage au)

_KingsleyNarcissa, arranged marriage!au_

_Word Count: 1148_

* * *

i.

At twelve years old, Kingsley is introduced to the girl he is meant to marry. Narcissa Black is a year his junior, and she is as cold as she is lovely. Even as Kingsley smiles at her, she keeps her lips pressed into a hard, thin line.

"She will warm up to you," his mother whispers in her ear.

Kingsley isn't sure that he believes it. Marriages are not arranged for happiness. His parents were lucky to fall in love, but others, like the Blacks, only marry out of duty. There will be no love, no warmth.

If only it could be different. He knows that families in the lower classes are free to marry whomever their hearts desire. He wonders would it would be like to have such a luxury, to marry someone because he _wants _to.

"Kingsley," his father says, resting a reassuring hand on his shoulder as music begins to play , "ask the young lady to dance."

At first, Narcissa just stares at Kingsley's offered hand and sniffs. It's only when her father pushes her forward, the gesture rough and unkind and enough to make Kingsley wish to draw his sword, that Narcissa accepts his hand and allows Kingsley to lead her onto the dance floor.

"I do apologize that you are stuck with me," he says, offering her a smile.

Maybe if they're away from her parents and she can see that he is a good boy, she will warm up to him. Instead, Narcissa just glares. It looks like she would rather be anywhere but there. The excitement has long since faded, and Kingsley realizes that the feeling is mutual.

Still, they have a part to play. He had hoped it would be more than an act, but he realizes how wrong he was. With a sigh, he leads her along in a graceful waltz, trying to hide his disappointment.

ii.

Their families become close after that. Kingsley and his parents are often invited to the Black's various homes for balls and feasts and holidays.

Kingsley keeps hoping that Narcissa will come around, that she will be happy to be his bride. Instead, the two of them only seem to grow more distant.

"I want to love her, Mother," he says, frowning as he watches Narcissa from his bedroom window.

She is beautiful in her green dress, walking among the flowers in the garden. Kingsley likes to admire her. He wonders if she knows exactly how lovely she is.

"I know you do, darling," his mother says with a heavy sigh. "If we were in the position, you would have been permitted to choose your own bride. Unfortunately…"

Kingsley winces. He knows, of course. Two years ago, the week before he met Narcissa for the first time, his parents explained things. The Shacklebolt estate is bordering on poverty. While gold is not the ultimate driving force, it is necessary so that his father may continue his work advocating for better treatment of the peasants. They need this union and the Black family's money.

He will what it takes, but it makes his heart heavy. He wishes he could still be a child without these burdens. Growing up comes with too many responsibilities, and he is not ready.

iii.

One summer, just a month before he turns sixteen, he finds Narcissa in the garden, sitting in a patch of weeds. He watches in silence as she plucks a dandelion from the ground. Gracefully, skilled fingers work the delicate stem, tying it to another. As she slowly ties together her crown of yellow, she sings a song that Kingsley does not recognize. He isn't sure that there are even words, but the melody is beautiful and haunting, and her voice is sweet and rich.

He steps forward. Narcissa stops singing and looks up, cheeks glowing a soft pink. Her lips twist into a scowl. "It isn't right to go around sneaking up on people," she snaps.

"Who was sneaking? I only wanted to talk to you."

She huffs and returns her attention to the flower crown. Her concentration seems to be broken because she fumbles with the stems now.

"I didn't cause this," he says. "I know you do not wish to marry me, and that's fine. But please stop acting like this is my fault."

At first she doesn't speak. Kingsley wonders if he's offended her; he hopes not because he cannot afford to jeopardize his family's relationship with hers. Finally, after what feels like forever, she sighs. "I do not blame you. I'm just… I'm scared."

"Scared?"

Narcissa nods and pats the ground beside her. Kingsley accepts the invitation.

"I don't like getting close to people. My father says you are a nice fellow," she says. "But I have never known any nice men. At least, none without ulterior motives."

He shakes his head. "Mine are pure, I assure you. I do not know you, but I hope to have the opportunity to love you."

"Love." She laughs softly. "It is strange, isn't it? Can love exist in a marriage like ours?"

"My parents love one another," he tells her. "I think we could do the same. At least… We can if you would like to try."

Narcissa considers for a moment. With a smile, she leans in, placing the flower crown on top of Kingsley's head. "I would like that."

iv.

After that day, the two become inseparable. Whenever Narcissa goes, Kingsley has to be by her side. Slowly, surely, before the day comes that they are wed, love begins to bloom.

They sit outside, backs resting against an apple tree. Kingsley bites into the juicy red fruit and sighs. It won't be long now. For the moment, though, he can pretend that they can stay young forever, that they don't have to grow up.

She rests her hand in his, smiling at him. "What are you thinking about?" she asks.

"I'm thinking that I want to capture this moment, freeze it in time, and just stay here forever."

Narcissa laughs and moves closer, resting her head against his shoulder. "It's perfect, isn't it?"

"More than perfect," he says.

v.

When the day comes that he finally gets to marry her, he is not afraid. His father stands at his side and instructs him as best he can, but Kingsley doesn't need it. There is no doubt in his mind; he is ready to face forever with Narcissa by his side.

She is beautiful in white, and she stands before him with the happiest of smiles. "It's finally happening," she whispers.

"I love you," he says, keeping his voice low as the priest begins the ceremony.

"I love you too."

And that's all the sign he needs to know that his marriage is about more than duty and honor. He and Narcissa will be joined together by love and nothing else.


	8. Strength (Viking au)

_Kingsley and Minerva, Viking!au_

_Word Count: 1013_

* * *

The day his world falls apart is beautiful. In the back of Kingsley's mind, he thinks it is almost cruel. On the day the love of his life dies, the grey skies part, and there is enough sunshine to melt the ice in some places. He wonders if the gods are playing some sort of joke.

His beloved Rosmerta cannot be dead. Even the gods cannot be so cruel.

"Kingsley?"

He looks up to see Minerva standing behind him. For several moments, neither of them speak. Her lips purse as she seems to contemplate what to say. Finally, she sighs. "I know what you plan to do, and it is completely foolish and reckless," she tells him, her tone leaving no room for argument.

He doesn't bother arguing. He knows she is right. Instead, he just offers her a small smile. "Shh. Please. You'll wake the dead," he says, gesturing to where Rosmerta's body lies in preparation for the pyre.

His old friend does not smile at that. Maybe that's for the best. Kingsley isn't sure if he had been joking anyway.

Exhaling heavily, Minerva clears snow from the ground and sits beside him. She stares off in the distance at the icy expanse. "Please reconsider."

Kingsley's jaw tightens. Swallowing dryly, he scrapes his thumb over a rock within his reach. "I'm not sure what you're talking about, old friend."

Minerva's expressions tells him that she knows this is a lie. Her dark brows raise as though to dare him to lie to her again. In all their years together, fighting side by side as warriors for the glory of the All-Father, she has learned to read him better than anyone else could ever hope. Sometimes Kingsley thinks that Minerva knows him better than he knows himself.

And yet he will not give in. Let her have her little theories and guesses. He will keep his secrets. There is no need to involve him.

"We have attended our share of funerals together," she reminds him. "I share the same beliefs as you."

Kingsley shifts, suddenly uncomfortable. He adjusts the fur vest, shaking his head. She's managed to get lucky with a guess. That is all.

"There is no need for sacrifice, Kingsley."

For those of a higher status, slaves are sometimes sacrificed during the funeral ritual. It is the clan's way of ensuring their fallen brother will have assistance in the afterlife. Kingsley isn't sure if anyone has ever offered their life as a sacrifice out of love rather than servitude, but he has to believe it isn't unheard of. With all the love stories in the world, he finds it hard to believe that anyone would just let their lover pass into the next world alone.

Kingsley sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. "How did you guess what I was planning?" he asks.

Minerva laughs, though the sound is dry and devoid of humor. "You ask that like I haven't known you for most of your life, dear friend," she muses before reaching out and taking his hand. "You and I go back quite a ways. I do not take that friendship lightly."

He can't help but smile at that. He gives her hand a gentle squeeze. Some believe that women are not strong enough to serve as warriors, but Minerva is the strongest woman he has ever known. He thinks she could even put some berserkers to shame in battle.

But she is not supposed to be strong like this. Maybe part of him resents her for it. Kingsley does not want strength right now. He wants to fall apart and shatter in a way that even the gods could never piece him together again. His Rosmerta is gone, and there is nothing left.

Still, he would be lying if he said he isn't grateful for her company. In the back of his mind, Kingsley knows there are still doubts. He knows he wishes to follow his beloved wife, but there is still something holding him back, something he cannot quite name. If he believed in visions and omens, he might say that it is the All-Father trying to break through. Kingsley isn't sure what to think.

"You are a warrior," Minerva tells him, fixing her gaze upon the horizon. The sun still shines, but it is dimmer now as clouds slowly roll overhead. "Your fight is not yet over."

Kingsley opens his mouth to protest, but he knows she is right. He could sit here all day and make excuses, but the fact would still remain that he is a warrior, and his clan still needs him. His world is crashing down, but it is not the end of him.

"When your time is up, you will serve beside the great god Odin," Minerva says with a nod. "You and I shall train together in Valhalla, and then, when Ragnarok comes, we will stand by the All-Father and fight."

Tears sting his eyes, and he wipes them away. This is every warrior's dream. From the moment he first picked up an axe, he was told about the glory of Valhalla, of his life's mission to earn his place in those honorable halls by being a fierce warrior. He will not let this break him. Somehow, he will find the strength to carry on.

He smiles to himself. Maybe he already has the strength. It is not inside him, but it is beside him. For now, he can be weak and allow himself to feel. He can mourn his fallen lover and learn to live his life without her.

But, when it's all said and done, his dearest friend is still by his side. Minerva keeps her hand in his, and neither of then has to say it. As long as he needs her, she will be there for him. She will hold hom upright and teach him how to walk again in this new world without his beloved Rosmerta.

"I'm going to be okay," he whispers.

Minerva chuckles. "Yes, Kingsley," she agrees. "I do think you will be."


	9. Beautiful Mind (asylum au)

_Kingsely and Luna, asylum!au_

_Word Count: 1289_

* * *

Kingsley's first day at St. Mungo's Institution For the Insane begins simple enough. He is not a doctor or a nurse, so he doesn't have to interact too much with the patients. All he has to do is follow Matron Umbridge's orders and keep an eye on things. For the most part, it's an easy task. The only real trouble comes in the form of a patient who does not want the straitjacket out on her.

Kingsley doesn't have to use force. From his understanding, that's exactly why he was hired. Too many people were beginning to voice their concerns for the treatment of the patients. Kingsley has a way about him. He never has to raise his voice because so many look to him naturally.

"I know," he tells the patient, a wild-haired woman named Bellatrix. "Let's get you put away so that you can have a rest."

And he thinks the rest of his day will not be so difficult. It stays that way until Luna Lovegood enters his life.

…

Matron Unbridge sends him to collect a patient from the electroshock therapy area. "Be careful," she warns. "That one is dangerous."

Kingsley wonders how dangerous she could be. This ward doesn't seem to host the criminally insane, and he hasn't seen too many outbursts since his arrival. Even so, he is on his guard.

Dr. Riddle gives him a polite nod before summoning him inside. "Straight to her cell," he instructs. "No stopping for anything."

Kingsley gasps, resting his hand over his heart. He had expected some hardened criminal with wild eyes and snarling lips. Instead, he's faced with a small girl with matted blonde hair to her waist and wide silvery eyes. If she's older than seventeen, Kingsley will be surprised. She looks so frail that Kingsley is afraid to touch her.

"Right this way," he says, holding out his arm to her.

She takes it, smiling dreamily as Kingsley leads her down the corridor. Her hand is so thin, so skeletal. He tries not to focus on it, but it's so hard.

"What's your name?" he asks.

"Luna," she tells him. "Luna Lovegood."

"Pretty name."

"That's what the nargles tell me," she says.

Kingsley wants to ask, but he doesn't have a chance to. Luna closes her eyes and hums a strange melody, seeming to fall away from the world around them.

…

There's something about Luna that keeps him coming back. It isn't something sexual or romantic; he is simply curious about her as a person. He begins to look forward to their chats each day. Sometimes he can even talk to her without having to escort her to one therapy or another.

She's there because they say she's insane.

_"Are you?" he had asked._

_She had just smiled and retreated to that place in her head. He wonders what it's like in there._

She sees things. That's what Dr. Riddle tells him when he asks. She is a danger to herself, and, after her father's tragic death, she was finally institutionalized. She might have gone undetected it she hadn't nearly killed herself by jumping into the Thames, claiming to be searching for some fantastic creature or another.

Kingsley isn't sure that she's insane. He's only spoken to her a few times, but he can see something more inside her.

…

"No! No!" Luna screams, her voice shrill with panic as the orderlies lead her to the bath. She thrashes about. "I don't want it! No!"

Kingsley starts forward, but Matron Umbridge grabs his arm. "It isn't worth it," she tells him, shaking her head. "This well help her."

All Kingsley can do is watch on in horror as Luna is forced into the tub filled with icy water.

…

Some days are bad. Kingsley finds her throwing herself against the wall of her cell, screaming.

"Let me out! Please!"

…

"If I trust in you," she says as he leads her back to her cell, "would you let me down?" She tips her head to the side, studying him curiously. "I don't think you will. It's your eyes, you know."

Kingsley isn't sure what his eyes have to do with anything. Luna is just odd like that. Sometimes he gets the distinct feeling that she can see into his soul.

"You don't belong here, do you?" he asks as they round the corner and reach the corridor that leads to her cell.

Luna smiles at him. "They say I'm crazy," she says. "Haven't you heard?"

"You aren't."

Her smile only brightens, lips pulling back to reveal her teeth. She closes her eyes, humming an otherworldly tune.

…

"I think my head is going to explode," Luna says, pacing the length of the cell again and again. "Nargles… The shock was supposed to make them go away, but there are more of them."

"Have there always been nargles?" Kingsley asks.

Luna pauses and looks up. For a moment, she doesn't answer. She just smiles at him as though she's only just remembered that he is there. "No," she answers at last. "I saw faeries when I was younger. Mummy told me they were butterflies, but Daddy said they could be whatever I wanted them to be."

"When did the nargles first appear, Luna?"

"After Dr. Riddle." She frowns at. Kingsley can damn near hear the girls turning in her brain. If she reaches the same conclusion he has, she doesn't acknowledge it. Instead, she just shrugs. "I do wish the nargles would go away."

…

"I don't want to overstep," Kingsley says, wringing his hands together, "but I can't help but wonder… Is it possible that the shock treatments are causing Luna's condition?"

Dr. Riddle looks up from his notebook, dark eyes narrowing as he studies Kingsley. After a painful stretch of silence, he composes himself, lips twisting into a broad smile. Kingsley wonders how people can trust him so naturally. It must be his good looks overshadowing the clear time it seems to take for him to remember how emotions work. Kingsley finds it unnerving.

"Miss Lovegood is a very disturbed young girl," he says. "The poor lamb has only worsened since coming here. I believe her mind is steadily deteriorating."

_Deteriorating. _Kingsley bites back a rebuttal. He has spoken to Luna every day for over a month. There are days where she is unpredictable, sometimes even bordering on violent, but her mind is still so sharp.

And she never saw the nargles before Riddle began shocking her brain.

"I understand, sir," he says through gritted teeth, turning on his heel.

"Oh, and Shacklebolt?"

Kingsley glances over his shoulder. "Yes?"

"How I treat my patients is none of your concern. You most definitely _are _overstepping."

…

"Poor dear," he overhears one of the nurses murmur. "She was a little off, but she didn't deserve that."

"If you ask me, it's for the best. No more bloody nargles," Matron Umbridge says with a sneer.

"What's happened?" Kingsley asks.

Nurse Pomona sighs heavily. "Luna. Such a sweet girl. Dr. Riddle gave the order for her to be lobotomized this morning."

…

Luna is in her cell, but her eyes do not light up when Kingsley enters. She doesn't look up at all. The bandage is still wrapped around her head, and there's a red stain rising beneath it, slowly spreading across the white. She looks so pitiful, so broken.

Kingsley leans against the wall, sighing heavily, tears streaking his cheeks. He wants to storm out of St. Mungo's and never return, but he knows he cannot. As much as this place sickens him, he makes a vow to himself. He will stay because he knows that Luna and those like her still need him.


	10. A Risk Worth Taking (Titanic au)

_Kingsley and Susan, Titanic!au_

_Word Count: 1188_

* * *

The ship is taking on water much too fast. Kingsley shivers as it drenches his trousers, chilling him to the bone. He really should turn back and try to reach the lifeboats before it's too late.

He can't. There is a child crying, and Kingsley cannot bring himself to give up.

He almost laughs. This was supposed to be a nice trip. The Titanic was meant to be unsinkable, but it is so clear that this is not the case.

The crying grows louder. "Auntie! Aunt Amelia!"

"I'm coming, kid!" Kingsley calls, following the sounds.

It doesn't take long to find her. She looks to be about ten. "Where is my aunt," she asks.

"I'll help you find her. Can you move?"

She shakes her head. Kingsley noticed her leg has been pinned by a trunk that is much too heavy for her to move. She begins to cry again, her tears quickly getting lost in the droplets of water that splatter her freckled face.

"I'm scared!"

"It's okay," Kingsley says, and he thinks he may be reassuring himself just as much as he is reassuring her. He is hardly a heroic man, but he knows he has to see this through. "What's your name?"

"Su-Susan," she answers. "Susan Bones."

"Well, Susan, I'm Kingsley, and I'm going to get you out of here, okay? Then I'll find your aunt for you."

"Promise?"

Promises are dangerous things. Kingsley knows this all too well. This is a disaster, and there is no room for promises in times like these. It doesn't matter, though. Her eyes are wide with fear, and she is drenched, and Kingsley will do anything to keep her safe.

He takes off his coat, draping it over the shivering child. "I promise."

The trunk isn't too heavy for him, but the angle as the boat tilts makes it difficult for him to maneuver. Kingsley takes a deep breath. The cabin is flooded enough that he might be able to take advantage of it. It has nearly reached his waist.

"I'll be right back."

With another deep breath, Kingsley plunges into the icy water. The cold bites into his skin, invisible needles seeming to stab him. Still, he thinks he can ignore the pain; he doesn't have much of a choice. That little girl is depending on him.

Underwater, the trunk is still heavy. It isn't like the human body which seems to become almost weightless. But there is the smallest of spaces that he can just barely fit his foot into. Having come up with a plan, he resurfaces, sucking in a deep breath.

"I'm fine," he says. "We're going to get out of here soon, okay?"

Susan just nods.

Kingsley goes underwater again, forcing his foot into the space between the trunk and the wall. He presses his back against the wall and extends his leg, pushing with all his might. The trunk nudges, moving across the floor. Susan manages to pull her leg free.

"Can you walk?" Kingsley asks when he comes up again.

He fears his answers as soon as he's able to look at her foot. The skin is broken, and bruises have already bloomed over her exposed skin. Adding that to the fact that she has been sitting in cold water for God only knows how long… Even without the physical injuries, her energy would be drained from her small body.

Without hesitating, Kingsley lifts her in his arms. She is so tiny that it feels like carrying a ragdoll. He coat falls from around her shoulders, landing on top of the water, but he doesn't bother to retrieve it. There are more important things.

Susan curls in closer, resting her head on his chest. Kingsley's heart melts. He doesn't have kids of his own; he isn't even sure that he wants to be a father. But there's something so heartwarming about the moment.

He doesn't have time to dwell on it. The Titanic groans and jerks, and he knows he is running out of time. It is unlikely that he will be able to get a lifeboat, but there is still a chance for Susan. He has to get her to safety.

…

"I've already told you I am not leaving without my niece!"

Kingsley hears the commotion when he reaches the upper deck. A woman with stern navy eyes has rounded on a crew member. Kingsley can only assume she is exactly who he's looking for.

"Aunt Amelia!" Susan calls. "Aunt Amelia!"

The woman cries out when she sees Susan. She rushes forward. "Susan, baby, I was so worried!"

"Careful," Kingsley cautions. "She was pinned by a trunk. I think it might have broken her ankle."

"You saved her?" Amelia asks, tears in her eyes.

Kingsley nods. "Now go. Get in the lifeboat."

"What about you?"

Kingsley looks at the crowd. He's no expert, but he can assume that there aren't enough boats for everyone. He just shakes his head. "Go."

Amelia carefully maneuvers Susan into her arms and turns. "Come on, darling. We have to move."

Kingsley reaches for a cigarette in his shirt pocket, only to frown when he realizes the pack is wet from his dive. He can't help but to laugh. One last little cruelty from life before his story ends.

He sighs and looks up, watching the stars twinkle overhead. At least he has a pretty night sky to guide him to the next life.

…

New York is beautiful. Kingsley still can't believe he's here. He should have gone down with the ship; truthfully, he had assumed he would. Men were not a priority, and black men were even less of one. He has a sneaking suspicion Amelia might have said something to someone. All he knows is that he got to safety and that New York is beautiful.

He sits on the park bench, stretching his legs out and watching the world around him. After the Titanic's fateful end, he has learned to appreciate life. Every small detail is beautiful. From the subtle flap of butterfly wings to the array of rocks on the ground. He wants to breathe this life and really live.

"Kingsley, Kingsley!"

He looks up when he hears the familiar voice. Susan looks so much better now that she is dry and her foot seems to be healed. She smiles brightly as she lets go of her aunt's hand and runs toward the bench.

"You made it!"

"I did," he confirms, smiling as she throws her arms around him and hugs him tightly.

When she doesn't let go, Kingsley just goes with it. He lifts her and turns to her aunt. "We never were properly introduced," he says. "I'm Kingsley Shacklebolt."

"Amelia Bones. I was hoping I would find you before I sailed back to London," she says. "Let me buy you dinner to say thank you for rescuing Susan."

"That is hardly necessary," he tells her. "I was just doing the right thing."

"Please, Kingsley!" Susan begs. "Please come to dinner with us! Aunt Amelia says you are handsome!"

"Susan!"

Kingsley just laughs. "I suppose dinner wouldn't hurt."


	11. Madam Ripper (Jack the Ripper au)

_KingsleyBellatrix, Jack the Ripper!au_

_Word Count: 1345_

* * *

When the day is over and Kingsley has exhausted the last of his resources, he heads straight to the pub and calls for a pint of ale. Aberforth nods and fills the glass. Truthfully, Kingsley could drink the whole pub dry.

The Whitechapel murders are gaining a little too much attention. The latest victim is the third now. Everything matches the previous victims perfectly. There's no denying that the same man killed this.

It isn't safe for the women of ill repute anymore. Of course, it was never truly safe for them. There has always been danger hiding in the shadows, and street walkers are horribly vulnerable to attacks. Kingsley has seen some of the damage done to a few familiar faces. These murders are tragic, but they are hardly surprising. The world is a violent, cruel place.

"Good evening." A woman with wild curls and beautiful dark eyes sits beside him, smiling at him. Judging by the way she dresses and the boldness with which she addresses him, Kingsley pegs her for a madam. He would assume prostitute, but there is an air about her that screams dominance and control. "I hear you are leading the Whitechapel investigation."

Her words only strengthen his suspicions. Kingsley nods. "I am."

"Those poor girls. Three dead, and no one to answer for it," she mutters before signaling for a drink. "Bellatrix Black, by the way."

"Kingsley Shacklebolt."

She grins. "I know who you are, Mr. Shacklebolt. I make it my business to know anyone on these streets. Well, anyone this side of the city."

"And what is your business exactly?" he asks.

Aberforth brings her the drink. Bellatrix pays before sipping away at the amber liquid.

"Is this an interrogation?" she asks, lips twisting into a teasing smirk. "Are you going to put me in cuffs, Mr. Shacklebolt? I should warn you: I might like that too much."

Kinglsey's face flushes with heat. He looks down, pointedly fixing his attention on his drink. No one has ever spoken to him so bluntly, so crudely, especially not a woman. "No. Not an interrogation," he says. "Obviously not."

"Are you any closer to finding the bastard who did it?" she asks.

He shakes his head. "We are doing our best."

"Yeah?" She finishes her glass and climbs to her feet. "Well, your best isn't keeping my girls safe, is it?"

And with that, she's gone.

…

Bellatrix finds a way into his life. Kingsley isn't exactly sure how it happens. She is always at that pub, always entering just a few minutes after he does. If he didn't know any better, he would almost think she's stalking him.

He doesn't mind the company. There is something dark inside her, but she clever and insightful. Kingsley realizes that he has come to genuinely enjoy their talks.

Most of all, though, he has come to develop something for her.

…

Bellatrix is waiting for him in the pub. "You, Mr. Shacklebolt, are late," she says, raising a brow. "Any particular reason for that?"

Kingsley swallows dryly. The new has not yet broken. No one else knows that another victim was found. He takes his usual seat beside her and calls for something stronger than ale. Tonight, he needs to be numb; he needs to forget.

"There's been another murder, hasn't there?" Bellatrix guesses, her voice barely above a whisper.

Kingsley hesitates. He knows he shouldn't give her details, but he needs to tell someone. Keeping everything inside is driving him mad, and he is afraid he might finally fall over the edge.

After several seconds of silence pass, he nods. "I'm afraid so."

"Aberforth!" Bellatrix calls, raising her hand and snapping her fingers.

The barman scowls at being addressed in such a way, but he makes his way over. "Another glass for the _lady?_" he asks, putting as much venom as possible into the last word.

"For the gentleman," Bellatrix answers. "And sod the glass. Bring him the whole damn bottle."

…

He is drunk and numb, and he feels like maybe the world isn't going to end. Maybe he can float away and leave this all behind. Maybe…

Bellatrix keeps an arm around him, though she has her work cut out for her. He is bigger than she is, sturdier. Every time he stumbles, he nearly pulls her to the ground. Somehow, she manages to keep up.

"This isn't my house," he says, his words sluggish and slurred.

"I know, Mr. Shacklebolt. I know."

…

When he wakes in morning, his head is throbbing and he worries he might vomit. He sits up, groaning. At first, he is confused when he doesn't recognize the room. Emerald wallpaper with ornate silver designs, luxurious furniture, fine silk sheets. It registers that this must be a brothel.

He vaguely remembers Bellatrix bringing him here, but it's all a blur.

"Oh. Good. You're awake," Bellatrix says, looking up from the desk she sits at. "I was worried you might sleep all day. It's nearly noon."

_Noon. _Kingsley swears loudly and climbs out of bed. He has too much to do, and he knows the captain will not be happy with his tardiness.

"You can get changed in here," Bellatrix tells him, smirking as her dark eyes move appreciatively over his body. "I assure you, I don't mind at all."

"I don't have a change of clothes," he says, grimacing at the sight of the wrinkled shirt.

"In the wardrobe. I like to keep men's clothing for occasions when my clients have, shall we say, interesting desires." She stands and makes her way closer, pausing when she is only an inch from him. "In case you're wondering, you were quite the gentleman last night. So very proper and good, aren't you?" She winks before kissing his cheek. "I'll give you some privacy."

When she's gone, Kingsley opens the wardrobe. Beneath her many dresses, he finds a simple pair of trousers and a shirt. They will have to do. Perhaps Dawlish will have a spare jacket to lend him.

As he pulls shirt out, something catches his eye. Kingsley looks over his shoulder, frowning. He doesn't want Bellatrix to think he's snooping, but he can't resist.

The gloves at the bottom of the wardrobe are caked with dried blood. Kingsley stumbles back, shaking his head.

_Those poor girls. Three dead, and no one to answer for it._

Bellatrix couldn't have known about the third murder that night. Not unless…

He shakes his head again. She can't be. It's impossible.

But hadn't she always appeared in the pub right after him? Hadn't she always seemed to be there, keeping him close.

The sound of the door closing and the lock clicking into place draws him back to his surroundings. Bellatrix stares at him, her expression completely unapologetic. "I was hoping you wouldn't find that," she says. "You know what it means…"

"It means that you're the ripper," Kingsley says.

"No." Her lips curve upward into a cold smile. "It means that you cannot leave this place. Well. Not alive."

Kingsley reaches for his pistol, only for realize it isn't there. Bellatrix must have put it somewhere the night before. She seems to love his confusion. With a laugh, she moves forward. "I was going to return it before you left. Suffice it to say that won't be happening now."

"You're mad," he says. "Absolutely barking."

"Oh, you have no idea. But clever, aren't I? Who would ever suspect a poor, defenseless woman? Brilliant, isn't it?"

"Why?"

Bellatrix shakes her head, pulling out a knife hidden somewhere in the ruffles of her dress. "We are not playing this game, Mr. Shacklebolt," she tells him, taking another step toward him. "I'm afraid you aren't going to catch me."

Before he can react, she springs forward, plunging the blade into his neck.

The world is growing dark as blood spills from the wound. Kingsley raises his hand, pressing it against his neck, but it isn't enough to stop the bleeding.

"Goodbye, Mr. Shacklebolt," she says before raising the knife again.


	12. Let Go (flapper au)

_KingselyRita, flapper!au_

_Word Count: 1170_

* * *

When Kingsley arrives in America, it is a lot to take in. New York is alive and so very noisy with the hustle and bustle of mundane life. Though he is used to this sort of energy back home in London, this place seems just as foreign as it does familiar.

"Kingsley! Oh, Kingsely, darling!"

Hearing Rita's voice makes his heart leap. She is his reason for coming to America in the first place. Rita has decided that America is the best place for her to study, and Kingsley has spent the past year writing letters to her nearly every day. Now, in celebration of his twenty-first birthday, his father has sent him to New York for a month-long holiday.

Seeing Rita is something of a shock. He knows about the so-called flapper movement that has come with this strange jazz age, but actually seeing it is bizarre. Rita's blonde curls are cut short and pinned back. Her pale skin has been painted with makeup, with an emphasis of darkness around her eyes, and ruby red lips. Her dress is a short, silver number that is scandalously just below her knees, and she has foregone stockings and is showing bare legs.

For several seconds, all Kingsley can do is stare with a slack jaw. She is beautiful, of course, but this is not _his _Rita. His Rita has always been fiery, but she would never fall into this wild and crazy counterculture.

And yet, he realizes he isn't really bothered by it. She is still lovely, and that smile is warm and familiar. Right now, he needs familiarity.

"You look…" He hesitates, searching for an appropriate word. "You look stunning."

Rita grins at that. "Thank you, darling. Oh, America has been ever so exciting!" She opens her silver beaded handbag, retrieving a cigarette which she tucks between her lips and lights. Her lipstick leaves a ruby stain on the brown filter. "I must say, Kingsley, darling, you have come at a most excellent time. Barnabas Cuffe–yes, _the_ Barnabas Cuffe–is hosting a little shindig at his estate this evening. It would be absolutely corking if you were to accompany me."

Kingsley isn't sure who Barnabas Cuffe is, or why he's supposed to know him, but he doesn't ask for clarification. All he cares about is that Rita is back in his life, and she wants to go somewhere with him. It will he just like their days back home. They will go for a stroll, talk for hours, and hold hands the whole time. Just the thought of it makes him shiver with anticipation. He truly has missed her more than words could ever express.

He returns her grin. "I would be honored to go with you."

…

Whoever Barnabas Cuffe is, he must be an important man, judging by his home. The place is bigger than anything Kingsley has ever seen.

"You should see the guest house," Rita tells him. She has traded her silver dress for an emerald one that goes well with the peacock feather headband. "It's behind the house, right on the lake. Absolutely darling!"

"Who is this Cuffe bloke again?" Kingsley asks.

"The editor for the paper, silly. Everyone knows who Barnabas Cuffe is! Now, come along."

The inside is just as breathtaking as the outside. Kingsley looks around, frozen to the spot in the entryway. This is nothing like the home he knew. A live band has been set up, and upbeat music fills the air. A singer with dark hair and a sparkly black dress sings into the microphone.

The place is crowded. Around him, a sea of people laugh and chat, seeming to enjoy themselves. Some dance the Charleston, while others partake in dance moves that have not yet made their way across the pond.

So, this is the life Rita has been living. He can only assume so, at least. She looks far too comfortable for this to be her first party to attend.

It's too much. Kingsley feels like he might throw up.

"There you are!" Rita calls, shimmying as she walks; Kingsley can't look away from the mesmerizing way her body shakes. "A little something to ease your nerves, darling. I know how you hate crowds."

"Then why did you invite me?" he asks before taking the glass. He sniffs, the bitter smell of alcohol filling his nostrils. "Rita! Are you mad? Alcohol is prohibited!"

She just laughs, resting a delicate hand on his chest. "Darling, you worry far too much. You aren't a cop yet, and you aren't even a bloody American! Live a little!"

But he can't. Kingsley knows that not everyone follows his moral code; he doesn't expect them to. If people want to live their own lives and do whatever they want, that's their choice. And they are free to do so. But this is his choice. The noise, the alcohol, the glamour… They are too much for him.

With a sigh, he slips the glass back into her hand. "If you'll excuse me," he says, "I think I need some fresh air."

…

The lake is gorgeous. Lanterns are hung up, and their orange glow reflects on the dark surface as Kingsley walks along the perimeter. He isn't sure how big the lake is, but he doesn't care. All he knows is that he has to move. If he stays still for too long, it feels like his skin is too tight and he might burst at the seams.

He's halfway to the other side when he stops and looks up, starting at the house. Even from here, he can hear the noise of the party inside. It's softer, but it still makes his chest ache.

Coming to America had seemed like a great idea. He had so many hopes and dreams, and he had been so sure that he could spend time with the woman he loves. Now he isn't so sure.

America and its allure of liberation have captured her and taken hold. Rita is still lovely and good, but she is not the woman he fell in love with so long ago.

He leans down and picks up a small stone before tossing it. It skips across the surface, leaving ripples in its wake.

Kingsley sighs. He wonders if there's a chance for them at all. It seems so hopeless now. Rita looks at home here. He doubts she will ever want to return to England, and he knows he does not wish to stay here.

He will let her go. Though he wants nothing more than to hold her tightly and pray for things to make sense again, he knows it is selfish. He cannot make her into what he wishes her to be. All he can do is let her live her life while he lives his. Maybe their paths will cross again and they will have a second chance.

In the meantime, he has a month left to explore this country. He plans to make the most of it.


	13. If It Takes Fighting a War (VictorianAU)

_KingsleyPomona, Victorian!au_

_Word Count: 1138_

* * *

He has been left behind. Kingsley closes his eyes, groaning as he tries to sit up. The pain is much too great, and he collapses again, landing in the mud. A bitter laugh escapes his lips as he presses a hand to the stab wound, his stomach twisting as he feels the sticky warmth of blood.

He signed up for the war against Russia because it was his duty. Military life never appealed to him, but the hysteria had been too great. How could he not join his fellow man? His country needed him, and that was enough to make the Crimean Peninsula appeal to him.

Now, after all his fire and determination, he's going to die in the mud, alone and afraid. He closes his eyes, allowing the world to fall away. The pain is too great, and he does not want to be here when the end finally reaches him.

…

"Oh, thank God above. We were worried you would not wake."

Kingsley blinks rapidly, trying to clear his vision. Is this a dream? It seems like he was dying only moments ago. Perhaps he is dead, and he shall meet Saint Peter soon.

The woman, all rosy cheeks and kind eyes, could so easily be an angel. Kingsley nods to himself. That must be it. After a lifetime of devotion, he has finally found his way into Heaven. The realization is something of a relief.

He is warm and dry, and the angel is quite lovely. There is no doubt in his mind that this is the next life.

As he sits up, however, pain shoots through his body. Kingsley manages to catch a glimpse of the blood stained bandage wrapped securely around his middle. Crying out, he collapses again, and things become clearer.

He's heard that the medical efforts have improved. Some woman, Nightingale, he thinks her name might be, has brought about change and reform in hopes of keeping the British soldiers and their allies alive. He looks around and sees the familiar setup of a medical tent.

Not dead. Kingsley doesn't know if he's more relieved or disappointed.

"You really shouldn't push yourself," the woman with kind eyes says, appearing at his side.

"What's your name?" Kingsley asks as she sets about tending to his wound that has begun bleeding again.

"Pomona," she answers. "Pomona Sprout."

She makes quick work of removing the bandage. Whatever she puts on the wound stings and burns, but Kingsely endures it with a clenched jaw. He is still alive, and this kind nurse is doing everything within her power to ensure he stays that way.

That mental reassurance doesn't ease the pain. Kingsley lifts his hand to his mouth, biting down to keep from crying out.

Pomona is gentle and takes extra care as she guides the fresh bandage along his injury. He can still feel the aftershock of the treatment, but the pain is slowly beginning to fade.

"Thank you," he says softly. "Do you know what happened? How did I get here?"

"As for your first question, I'm afraid I'm not entirely sure. I can only tell you that you were stabbed," she answers, frowning. "Quite a nasty wound. It took some time to stabilize you."

Kingsley winces. He hasn't gotten to see the wound itself, but he remembers his hand coming away slick with blood, as well as the dizziness and numbness as his blood drained and pooled around him.

"You were found on the battlefield while collecting the dead," Pomona says. "They found you just in time. If they had waited even an hour longer, you would not be here today."

It's a terrifying realization. Of course, he knew he could die when he made up his mind to fight. Somehow that doesn't make it all any less surreal.

"You should get some rest, dear," Pomona tells him. "If you need anything, let me know. I will do my best to accommodate you."

"Can you stay with me?" Kingsley asks, his voice soft and laced with fear. "I think some company is all I need."

"Of course. Let me pull up a chair, and I shall sit with you until you fall asleep. That's the important thing now, dear. You need your rest."

He wants to protest. In spite of the pain, he is too anxious. Kingsley doesn't want to sleep.

But his eyes are so heavy. His injury is catching up to him. With a yawn, he nods, muttering that a quick nap may not hurt.

Pomona stays by his side, holding his hand in hers. She warm and comforting, and it makes it easy for Kingsley to drift off to sleep.

…

Time passes. His wound is slow to heal, but Pomona remains by his side through it all.

Her warmth and comfort become something of a safe haven for Kingsley, and they quickly form a friendship. He tells her about his family, about his dreams of one day becoming a man of the law. She tells him about her family of farmers and her dream of having her own little cottage one day with a garden of beautiful flowers that she can tend to.

"Why did you become a nurse?" he asks curiously.

Pomona just smiles. "I wanted to change the world."

Truthfully, he thinks she's doing an excellent job of it.

…

It takes some time for his commanding officer's ruling to reach him. By then, Kingsley has healed and has been going mad, longing more than anything to return to battle.

Fate has other plans. He stares at the letter, trying to swallow down the anger. Kingsley has been a good and faithful soldier. In the end, he had damn near given his life for his country's cause. None of that matters. They are calling him back home.

"It will be nice, won't it?" Pomona asks when he tells her the news. "You must miss your family."

He does. Of course he does. But he will miss the war even more. His men had been his brothers. It feels like he is being forced to remove a limb.

Still, he knows there is no way around this. Kingsley is just a soldier; it is not his place to disobey a direct order. Besides, there is, perhaps, some hope to be found.

"When this is over, I would like to take you out and court you," he tells her. "There is a lovely park just outside of London. I believe you will like the flowers."

Pomona blushes, and it somehow makes her even more beautiful in his eyes. "I would like that," she tells him.

The war has brought darkness and pain, and he knows he will never escape from those things. Even so, it has brought Pomona into his life. Perhaps this war will have worth it.


	14. Devotional (Ancient Egypt au)

_Kingsley&Cornelius, Ancient Egypt!au_

_Word Count: 1249_

* * *

It has been a long time since Kingsley has been in the royal palace. As a priest for the Temple of Anubis, he so rarely has the need to come here, except when summoned for rituals. From everything he's heard, that no longer seems like a possibility.

The new pharoah, Cornelius, is trying to take away their gods and silence their faith. In his eyes, only the god Atem should be worshipped. Over the past week alone, his soldiers have come into temples, destroying them and declaring them closed forever. So many priests and priestesses have perished in the raids because they dared to stand up for what they believe. If it comes to it, Kingsley will add his name to that list. He does not fear death; after spending this life serving Anubis faithfully, he is certain his soul can pass the test to allow him to enter the underworld.

He wonders if Cornelius suspects what he is here for. Kingsley assumes so. The pharaoh is waiting for him on his throne, flanked by soldiers with spears. His posture is rigid, and he studies Kingsley with narrowed eyes.

"Priest," Cornelius says, and the word almost sounds like an insult.

Maybe, to him, it _is _an insult. Kingsley, however, will wear his title with pride. He comes from a long line of priests. For three generations before him, his family has served Anubis. Now, faced with a ruler who would see that line end, Kingsley stands tall and proud. He bows to Cornelius because it is expected of him, but he does not recognize the man's authority in his heart. That is what matters.

"Speak your business, Priest," the pharaoh says after several moments of silence. "I am a very busy man."

"Of course, Pharaoh," Kingsley says. "I will not keep you long. I ask that you cease what you are doing. The priests and priestesses of this land are doing you no harm. We are merely teaching the ways of the gods and goddesses. We are peaceful, and we wish only to educate the people and preserve the traditions."

"Traditions of false gods," Cornelius says with a sneer. "This is _my _land, not yours. I say what is allowed. _My _god is the truth. You are a deceiver, and you have no place in my kingdom."

Kingsley swallows dryly, dark eyes shifting to the soldiers with their spears. All it would take is a single order from Cornelius, and those spears will find their way into Kingsley's body. He has to tread carefully now. Though he isn't afraid of death, he is not yet ready. If he can find a way to live a long life, teaching the world about the gods and celebrating Anubis, he will gladly take it.

"With respect, Pharaoh," Kingsley says, his tone harder now, showing the other man that he needs business, "the ways of this land are far older than you, and this land will be here long after your soul has been judged. It would be most imprudent to dismiss is so callously."

Cornelius rises at that, cracking his staff against the floor. If he means to intimidate Kingsley, his fails. Kingsley stands his ground, making peace with the possibility of meeting his patrons god sooner than expected. But the pharaoh does not give the order for his men to approach. To Kingsley's surprise, he signals for them to stay back as he approaches Kingsley.

As far as pharaohs go, Cornelius is quite unimpressive. He is a head smaller than Kingsley and scrawny. Kingsley would guess he has never known a life without luxury. It takes everything for Kingsley not to laugh. In the end, he and his wife Dolores, are nothing more than a couple of children who are angry that they cannot have their way, so they are calling others liars and actively seeking to destroy this beautiful way of life.

"This is my land," Conrelius says again, looking up at Kingsley with flared nostrils. "I am in control. If I wanted you dead, it would take just a single word. You are dangerously close to finding out just how dangerous I can be, Priest."

"A man who ignores history and tradition is not a man at all," Kingsley says. "He is a fool."

"I have given my answer. Get out of my sight."

…

The screams wake him. Nymphadora, a priestess for the goddess Hathor runs into his chambers. Kingsley is about to scold her for her lack of manners, but he sees the fear in her eyes. "What has happened?" he asks, on his feet in seconds. He pulls on his robe.

Before his companion can answer, he hears footsteps and angry shouts drawing nearer, and he understands.

"They have destroyed my temple," Nymphadora says.

They had assumed they would avoid the pharaoh's wrath for a while because their temples are away from the rest of the city. Perhaps they might have if Kingsley hadn't paid the pharaoh a visit earlier. No matter. This was always doomed to happen.

The soldiers burst into the room. They grab Nymphadora first, then two more grab Kingsley. He holds his head high, determined to meet his end with dignity. "Leave me!" Kingsley bellows. "I will perish in the temple if I must!"

But the soldiers don't listen. They force him and Nymohadora out of the temple. Outside, priests and priestesses from nearby temples have gathered, screaming at the soldiers. One pushes a soldier, only to find a spear through his stomach moments later. Kingsley cries out as the priest falls to the ground, bleeding in the sand.

Kingsley catches sight of Cornelius and his wretched wife. He wants to lunge at them and rip them limb from limb. He knows he can't, though. The soldiers have him held too tightly.

With a smirk, Cornelius approaches him. "I told you, Priest," he says. "I will do with my land as I please. We will have order."

…

His temple is in ruins. Kingsley feels anger surge through his body, but he knows it will do him no good. Anger cannot restore the glory of this temple, nor can it take away the pain that so many of the devoted feel right now. He wants to _do _something.

Nymphadora appears at his side, frowning at the wreckage at their feet. "We could rebuild," she says with a sigh. "The pharaoh has offered those who will convert the opportunity to tend to Atem's temple."

Kingsley has heard the offer. Some have jumped at it. Percy Weasley, who was a diligent priest for the god Thoth, abandoned his pleading family, seeking the opportunity to prove himself to Cornelius. But most have not. Like Kingsley, most of the other holy men and women are faithful to their gods. They would sooner jump in the Nile than sacrifice their honor.

Rebuilding seems pointless. Cornelius was right. For the time being, this is his land, and he is free to rule it as he pleases.

"We can rebuild elsewhere," he says. "The pharaoh does not rule everywhere. We shall leave and find a new home, and it will be a kingdom for the gods."

He doesn't know how popular his idea will be, but it doesn't matter. Kingsley will gladly leave on his own if it means being free to resume his old ways.

The smile on Nymphadora's face tells him that he will not be alone. She takes his hand and nods. "Then let us begin."


	15. The Collection (steampunk au)

_Kingsley&Tonks, steampunk!au_

_Word Count: 1372_

* * *

Kinglsey hurries down lane, shadowed in the light of the the gaslights. In the distance, he hears an airship and can't help but glance up. The airship pirates have been more active lately, especially in targeting trade ships carrying aether.

He shakes his head. Now is not the time to think about that. That is for a different department, and he has to focus on the case at hand. Strictly speaking, it is just another case in an ever-growing mountain of unsolved disappearances. It's beginning to take its toll on him, but Kingsley has to be persistent. If he even thinks about taking a step back from his investigation…

"Who is it this time?" Kingsley asks.

John Dawlish looks up from his his notes, his forehead creasing as he frowns. "Regulus Black."

_Black. _Kingsley recognizes the name easily enough. The Blacks are as wealthy as they come. Their stock in aether has risen them to the top of the ranks.

Kingsley purses his lips. The Black heir would be an obvious target for kidnappers, but that doesn't seem to fit. All of the missing people are promising in one way or another.

Gwenog Jones shows promise in the athletic department. Barnabas Cuffe is destined to be the next Dickens. Blaise Zabini is not spectacular on his own, but his mother owns a business dealing in poison. Tom Riddle is said to be as charismatic as can be, and they think he could easily lead this country.

Now Regulus Black can join that list.

"Any connections to the others?" Kingsley asks.

"Still working on it."

"Work harder," Kingsley says. "This is priority."

…

"I heard you were looking into the disappearances."

Nymphadora Tonks' voice startles him. Swearing, Kingsley plucks a match from his pocket and strikes it, lighting his candle. In the dimness, he can see the young woman sprawled out on his favorite chair. Her ray gun rests in her lap, and a wicked grin plays at her lips.

"Breaking and entering is a crime, Tonks," he says.

Her grin only broadens. "What did I break? Your window was open." She stands, tucking her gun in its holster. "Besides, you won't arrest me. Not when you need me."

Kingsley sighs heavily. Strictly speaking, he isn't supposed to work with Tonks. The force is particular about that sort of thing, and they've made it clear that women are not fit to be detectives. Tonks disagrees; Kingsley is inclined to side with her. She is clumsy and cheeky, but he'll be damned if she isn't one of the finest consultants he's ever known.

"What do you have for me?"

"A connection."

His eyes widen. They've been looking into it for months, only to come up empty-handed again and again. Everyone is from different walks of life. The only common ground any of them have is their potential. Is it really possible that Tonks has found something?

As good as she is, he wouldn't put it past her.

"Okay. I'll bite," he says. "What's the connection?"

"A professor."

Kingsley snorts. "Is that all?"

"It doesn't sound like much, but I would guess it's the closest thing you've got to a lead, yeah?" She lightly prods his chest with her finger. "Which means you should be thanking me."

"Who's the professor?"

"I'll tell you on one condition," she says. "Take me with you."

He scowls. It isn't the kind of thing he wants to agree to. If anything happens to her, it will be on him. Still, if she has valuable information, he can't say no. "Fine."

…

Professor Horace Slughorn lives in a nice manor right in the heart of the city. Kingsley wonders how teaching can pay so well. Maybe he's in the wrong profession.

"Come in, come in! Would you like some tea?" Slughorn asks, beaming at them.

"I would love some," Tonks says. "Biscuits too, if you've got them."

Kingsley shoots her a look. She doesn't even bother to look abashed. With a shrug, she just smiles at him.

The professor doesn't seem to mind. He claps his hands, and a mechanical whirring starts up. The thing that comes into the room looks human, but it moves in an unnatural way.

"Is that an automaton?" Kingsley asks, unable to deny his admiration. It is rough around the edges, but a lot of hard work clearly went into it.

"It is! Fully functional clockwork servants," Slughorn answers proudly. He turns to the automaton and issues a quick order. The automaton moves toward the hallway. "Still has a few kinks to work out, but it is nearly ready for market! Come along! I'm assuming you lot have got some questions for me."

Kingsley has a good feeling about the man. He seems genuine and honest already, and he obviously has a brilliant mind if he can create functional automatons. Tonks, on the other hand, looks disturbed by something. Kingsley makes a mental note to ask her about it later.

Slughorn doesn't give him any reason for suspicion as they interview him. He's just a professor who educates young minds. Yes, of course he remembers the missing; he also agrees that they have bright futures ahead of them. No, he hasn't seen them, and it is really quite tragic.

All through Kingsley's interrogation, Tonks looks like she wants to say something. When Slughorn finishes, she's on her feet, all bright smiles. "Thank you so much for your time," she says, and Kingsley doesn't understand what's changed. She goes in for a hug, only adding to Kingsley's confusion. "We really must be off, I'm afraid."

"So soon?" Slughorn asks.

Kingsley is about to say that they don't _have _to leave yet, but something in Tonks' expression makes him change his mind. He just nods. "Afraid so. We have a lead on the disappearances we need to check out," he says.

Once he and Tonks are outside again, he rounds on her, brows raising. "You wanna tell me what the hell that was about?"

"The clockwork servant."

"Yeah? What about it? Clockwork is cutting edge technology," he points out.

"Yes, it is. But dolls with real flesh," she says, "are a thing of nightmares."

Real flesh? Kingsley can admit that the automaton had been unnervingly lifelike, but _real flesh_? It's impossible. He wants to laugh it off, but Tonks' look makes the sound die in his throat.

"You didn't have a good look at her, did you? That was Gwenog Jones," she says.

Kingsley shakes his head. "That's mad. And if I tell the others, they will say the same thing."

Tonks smiles. "Not if you have proof." She holds up a key, and the hug makes more sense. He should have known she knows how to pick pockets.

"We've discussed breaking and entering, haven't we?"

"Does it really count if you have a key?"

…

Kingsley knows they shouldn't be here, but that doesn't stop him. He wonders what compels him more: to discover that Slughorn is a criminal or to prove Tonks wrong.

"Isn't it exciting?" Tonks whispers. "It's like something out of those penny dreadfuls."

Kingsley snorts. "You're getting ahead of yourself."

Tonks leads the way to a locked door. Kingsley would bet money that it leads to the basement. He takes a deep breath, trying to clear his head. This is ridiculous. Mad scientists only exist in fiction.

Tonks proves, once again, that she would make a damn good criminal. She carefully picks the lock, grinning when it clicks. "You wanna take the lead?" she asks.

Kingsley nods. It's for the best. After all, he is the one with police training. Tonks has no business here to begin with, but even less so leading. He opens the door and starts down the stairs.

The basement is lit by a soft glow. Aether-powered lighting, he would guess. He wonders what could possibly need this much light on a regular basis.

When he reaches the bottom of the stairs, he freezes so suddenly that Tonks crashes into him. "Kingsley? What is it?"

Unable to answer, he steps aside, pointing mutely. There, lying on tables, flesh and bone mixing with cogs and springs, are the remaining missing people, all in various stages of becoming clockwork dolls.


End file.
